The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) (12 page)

“Not exactly. She kept saying we need to hire at least one new body, but when I talked about trying to find a new manager, she got pretty chilly, told me I could do that if I wanted. Obviously, it would be better to promote from within, but who is there, other than Marian herself?”

“Why would you need to look any further?”

“Marian? In charge?”

“Why not?”

“She’s already handling all the online listings and sales, the online buying program, whatever payroll and accounting we don’t farm out.”

“In other words, she’s already managing the most lucrative and complicated part of the business, anyway.”

“She’d be swamped.”

“So you’ll tell her to hire someone who can learn fast, not some teen-ager but an assistant manager, and she’ll just have to delegate more. Right? Other people can learn to price, at least the under-fifty-dollar stuff. The rest they can leave for you, till they show they can handle it.”

“Chantal, we’re talking about Marian managing other people.”

“As in, ‘manage’ starts with the word ‘man,’ so it can only be done by someone with really big testicles?”

“Her personality is not terribly forceful. She’s a little . . .”

“Mousy.”

“I guess.”

“You never call her that insulting nickname, which I’ve always appreciated. Sure, she’d have a different management style. Do you find her all wishy-washy and indecisive when the chance crops up to buy a thousand-dollar book for sixty dollars?”

“Hell no.”

“She takes the chance, and then bites the bullet, no tears spilled when she occasionally gets taken?”

“Marian doesn’t
get
taken. If they listed inaccurately we return for a full refund, or there’s hell to pay with the listing service.”

“Hell to pay . . . from a little mouse? You cannot seriously be thinking about hiring some man from outside, and having Marian train him to become her new boss. It’s not 1947. Besides, what if you ended up with someone who hates cats, or doesn’t know Larry McMurtry from Terence McKenna?”

“OK. You’re right. But if she can’t do it, we risk losing her altogether. Nobody likes to be demoted.”

“How can someone show you how they handle responsibility if you don’t give them responsibility? Leaving aside the fact that she’s already practically running the place, by default.”

“OK, I’ll offer it to her.”

“She’ll blossom.”

“You’re smart for your age.”

“Or else I’d never have had a chance with you.”

“I suppose I’ll have to pay her almost as much as Bob.”

“You’re such a joker. Who’s cooking supper, or are we walking down the hill?”

“Just hot tea, I’m afraid. No solid food tonight, if you’re going to join me tomorrow.”

“Join you?”

“I’m going to take a first stab at solving this one.”

“You’re going to cross over.”

“We’re going to cross the horizon tomorrow, yes.”

“I figured it would take longer before you were ready.”

“Rashid may be in danger; we can’t wait any longer.”

“And I can join you, just like that?”

“Only if you want. You can still say no, now, or even in the morning.”

“Of course I want. . . . Matthew, what happened?”

“Things change.”

“When I made a fuss about your shutting me out, we almost . . . Is that it? Because I stopped pushing?”

“Nothing stands still, Chantal. You’re ready to take this step now, if you want. A certain openness is required. A wish too quickly fulfilled tends to be tossed aside as a thing of little value. The old Chantal treated these things like a check-list she had to get through as fast as possible. If I told her she wasn’t ready, that crossing this horizon can change your life forever, that the old-timers required an apprentice to spend years sweeping the floors and stirring the pots, she exploded. It’s not about breaking your spirit, I’d never want to do that, even if it were possible. But things have to be done in their own time. You’re more ready to accept that now, without anger.”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“You are.”

“Even without sweeping the floors for seven years?”

“Aging spirit guides are also sometimes wrong, and capable of being shown the error of their ways.”

“OK then.”

“OK.”

* * *

Marian had been about ready to lock up when she saw Les striding back from his late lunch with Jackson and the Mighty Quinn, trailing two teen-age fans of the female persuasion — the micro-bopper who’d been looking for him earlier, now accompanied by a chubbier pal. The threesome came in, the bopperettes giggling and gushing over his Blue Moon novels, the one with the long legs hovering close enough to make sure he could catch her scent — but without making any discernible move to actually buy a book, Marian noticed.

Les had told them it was closing time, but they seemed oblivious.

“
Blue Moon for the Misbegotten
was so radical,” one fawned. “Where do you ever come up with the titles?”

“I really enjoyed the one set in Louisiana, where he takes on the Cajun vampire,” gushed the other one. “What was that one called?”

“I believe that was
Blue Moon on a Hot Tin Roof
.”

“That’s it. How did you ever come up with that scene where the count got away by diving into that huge cauldron of steaming gumbo? I loved that.”

Since allowing them to take Les out for a drink, which was where this was headed, would put him on the road to committing several statutory felonies, Marian finally got sick of making herself look busy and started turning out the lights, at which point the microboppers finally took the hint and left, after the prettier one slipped Les her phone number.

“I don’t know if your younger fans even get the basic point of the books,” she said as Les helped check the back doors.

“The basic point?”

“That the Count can never keep up with the bloodshed of the mortals around him; the politicians and their police forces spill so much blood that his own contributions are a drop in the bucket.”

“Yes. That was the original idea. You make it sound like the Blue Moon books are actually worthy of grownup attention.”

The mouse smiled. It changed her whole appearance. “I keep telling you I’m a big fan.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to take me out and buy me a glass of wine?” Les asked.

She reached for her purse, raising one eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure you drank . . . wine.”

“Marian.”

“Yes?”

Matthew had come down to find Marian first into the store, as usual. Chantal, whose expertise with eggs was limited to “hard boiled,” preferred to let Matthew cook breakfast. Her insistence on a division of labor left her currently finishing the breakfast dishes.

“Chantal will do four days, but staggered hours, you’ll have to work it out with her.”

“Excellent.”

“About the new hire.”

“Yes?”

“Not some high-school kid; we need a grownup who knows books or at least can learn, who can eventually run things a few days a week.”

“I agree.”

“And I think the new manager should make the hire. That will establish the chain of command straight off, and the new manager will have to train them up, anyway.”

“That makes sense.”

“Are you willing to run the joint?”

“I’m . . .” She had to stop and clear her throat. He could see her forcing herself not to talk herself down. “Yes.”

“OK, that’s decided, then. There’s the matter of your pay.”

“I’m perfectly . . .” She stopped herself again.

“Assume for the sake of argument that you were to leave, so I’d have to hire a computer person to replace you for the online and business stuff,
and
a person to replace Bob as manager. At going rates for people who can actually tell a first edition from a first baseman, figure out what that would cost the outfit. Then tell me what your new, higher rate of pay is going to be, and be prepared to explain to me how much we’re really saving by paying you what you’re worth. OK?”

“Yes. I’ll do a spread sheet.”

“Which you’ll then explain to me.”

“Right.”

“Do you have anyone in mind for the new hire?”

“Les.”

“Les?”

“He knows books, he’s a published author, he’s on the panels at all the fantasy conventions, and he’s already a member of the Horrors. Plus his royalties are highly sporadic, it’s perfectly shameful, so he’s living like a pauper, which makes him affordable. And the cats like him.”

“Les is a night person.”

“Les has never bitten a customer, which is more than I can say for Mr. Cuddles. He can refill the hummingbird feeders without standing on a stool, and we’ve all seen him in daylight. He’s a little odd, but it’s part of what he has to do to write, the way Jeremy Brett had to become Sherlock Holmes. If he can’t start till noon we’ll work around it; there’s stuff that can be done just as well after closing; mornings are slow, anyway.”

“Marian, he won’t even come in the door unless he’s invited by someone who lives here, which right now he interprets to mean me and Chantal. What if we’re away?”

“I’ve been giving that some thought. The basement apartment is empty.”

“Would he move?”

“I have the go-ahead to talk to him?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

* * *

“Where to, now?” asked Chantal, looking all fresh and scrumptious. Matthew was tempted to say “Back to bed” but gave a slight sigh and decided to remain the responsible adult.

“The Botany annex.”

“Oh, goody: Drugs.”

“I hope you’ll be a little more circumspect if we’re within hearing of the undergraduates.”

“I thought all the undergraduates were away getting drunk and diving out of hotel windows in Florida.”

“It does fill you with optimism about the future of the race, doesn’t it?”

The gal they were looking for in the greenhouses turned out to be a pert little redhead named Darcie with green eyes and freckles and bangs. Matthew looked like he could eat her in one bite. Chantal knew she should have taken him back to bed for another half hour. Always trust your instincts on these things; run them till they drop. Naturally, while acknowledging this oversight to herself, Chantal was not going to become jealous; that would be immature. Even if the little slut wasn’t wearing a bra, and insisted on setting them swaying whenever he was looking, like a cow asking to be milked.

She had all kinds of things growing in an atmosphere that felt like a re-creation of some jungle plantation in Java.

“And what do you have that’s currently ready?” Matthew asked after a few introductory pleasantries about the
Brugmansia
, whatever they were.

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything from the cacti, we work from seed now and the
Lophophora
are
so
slow-growing. These little guys are two years old and as you can see they’re still no bigger than my fingernail. Well, maybe your fingernail. And in this tray over here are our babies, a couple of months old and you’d miss them if you didn’t know they were there, not much bigger than capers. You know capers?”

“Botanically or gastronomically?”

“Unless we can get some more cuttings to jump start things I’ll be an old hag before we can do much with this lot.”

Chantal wondered what she thought she was now, the cow, but decided not to say anything, since that could seem catty.

“Fertilizer?”

“Once they’re started we spray with some double-dilute phosphate to encourage blooms. In general it turns out they’ll tolerate a range of stuff as long as they’re well-drained, but generally they seem to want to grow in real crap. River sand, coconut husk, some limestone. They actually recommend pounding wallboard into dust. Yours survive, though.”

“In a sunny window, yes. Commercial palm and cactus mix, I’m afraid.”

“You’re fortunate, or else you’ve just been ignoring them. They need some moisture to get started, but after a certain point they seem to prefer being ignored. Water from the bottom to encourage those big taproots, and they need more sun than you’d think. More of our weak northern sun, anyway. In the Southwest they screen them with a white or beige cloth in the hot summer, they say to watch out for softness from excess sun, you know that, who do I think I’m talking to, but here we started our first batch with too little light, wanting to avoid burning them, and they grew thin and spindly, looking for the sun, till they finally damped off. It’s hard.”

“Because your instincts are all wrong.”

“You want to baby them but they’re designed to grow in the desert under a mesquite bush or something. The land of rocks and scorpions where nothing soft survives.”

“But they have no thorns,” Chantal noted.

“No.”

“No natural defense?”

“They’re extremely bitter, of course. Although the tortoise reportedly go for them quite eagerly, which would tend to confirm what the Indians say about the tortoise being sentient, unless it just means they’ll really just eat anything that’s close enough to the ground, which is also widely reported. Did you know that during droughts they get their moisture from fresh cow patties? The cow only uses about 20 percent of the available nutrient and the droppings are more than 90 percent water; an interesting example of species symbiosis, the cattle probably replacing bison or antelope in the original ecosystem, since the cattle can travel further to and from a water hole.

“Anyway, currently no cactus in any useful quantities. If you’re in North Mexico or Southwest Texas and you can lay hands on some cuttings we’d be appreciative. We can bring them back from a pretty desiccated state. In fact, that’s much better than moist and rotting. Dry them. Dry dry dry. We do have some San Pedro that’s growing like crazy, those tree-like things trying to escape through the ventilation slats over there. But either we got the wrong variety or the psychoactive reputation is grossly exaggerated because we’ve taken to chopping them up and using them in salads and nobody reports the slightest buzz except from the Tequila dressing. I do, however, have a nice crop of fungi.”